


Six

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Moresomes, Other, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Cristóbal’s holograms take better care of him than he’d care to admit.
Relationships: Cristóbal Rios/Emil/Emmit/Enoch/Ian/Mister Hospitality, Enoch | La Sirena's Emergency Navigational Hologram & Cristóbal Rios
Kudos: 20





	Six

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Emmet’s a wreck of a non-human being—unkempt and sloppy and somehow reeking of alcohol even though he _can’t drink_ , but damn does he have a fine cock. Cristóbal’s acutely aware of how arrogant that is. The body bearing over his is a perfect likeness of his own, save for the longer hair tangled around his fingers and maybe more fullness to the beard scratching his chin. It’s the same as the body behind him and the mouth on his shoulder, biting down as a second cock joins the first. Cristóbal’s breath hitches, head lolling back, but Emil lovingly pets his cheek and promises, “Shh, you can take it, _good boy_...”

Cristóbal doesn’t remember programming his holograms to condescend to him. But he didn’t program them to _fuck_ him either, and somehow every one of them has come on to him. It started with Enoch’s wandering eyes, then a stray bat from Ian’s hand against his backside, Emmet slurring a cliché Spanish line over the helm and Mister Hospitality suggesting he unwind. Mister Hospitality is the most annoying of them, maybe now because he’s the only one not _touching_ Cristóbal.

Seated in a chair across the room, he leans forward, intently watching Enoch’s hand glide over Cristóbal’s aching cock. Hot pink and throbbing, it leaks over Enoch’s projected skin. Cristóbal tries to buck into that touch, but he’s too busy trembling around the combined girth of Emmet and Ian. That thick plug pins him in place. It’s _so much_ at once. 

It’s never enough. Skilled hands thread through his hair—he’s not even sure whose—and he’s guided to Emmet’s mouth like he’s a doll made for their pleasure instead of the other way around. A shallow thrust from Ian has him gasping, parting his lips wide, and Emmet’s tongue slides inside him with all the skill Cristóbal ever had. It fills him up, shuts him up. He supposes it’s flattering—to know his own knowledge can amount to _this_ : one hell of a fivesome. Six, if their group pseudo-therapist counts. Mister Hospitality idly murmurs, “Perhaps he’d like to lie down? There are other holes that can be utilized...”

Cristóbal’s protest is muffled around Emmet’s greedy tongue. It licks him out from all angles, devouring him whole. He would like to lie down, sprawled across the cool sheets of his bed instead of four sweat-slicked bodies, crowding in on him from every side, but that would make it hard to have two of them inside his ass at once, and now he couldn’t stomach the loss. He’s just gotten used to the burn and stretch and the shallow but emphatic thrusts of his two most wild holograms. Enoch nuzzles affectionately against his cheek while Emil pets his stomach and tells the room at large, “His vitals are fine. Heart rate accelerated, body temperature near comfortable limits, breath a fraction laboured, but nothing a healthy human male in his prime can’t handle...”

Cristóbal would snort if he could. He’s obviously not in his prime. Back then, he wouldn’t have stooped to this. Now he’s too lonely and _horny_ to care. It’s just easier. It’s overwhelming. He doesn’t have to _think_ when he’s sandwiched between himselves, and that’s just blissful. 

Enoch’s grip tightens around his shaft—Cristóbal shudders and weakly tries again to buck into it. Emmet and Ian have him rooted to the spot, rocking back and forth between them. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. Ian mutters, “Stay still, Lad.” His hands stop tracing Cristóbal’s tingling sides, instead wrapping firmly around his middle, crushing him against Ian’s fire-hot chest—so many arms and hands and thighs are everywhere that Cristóbal can’t keep track. He knows Enoch’s the one mouthing at his neck, leaving bruises that Emil will heal later. He knows Mister Hospitality’s gaze is boring into him, judging him, _wanting_ him. He hopes he looks as good as he feels, even though he feels like a feverish mess. He wants to come. 

He wants _them_ to come, to cover him in it, and maybe that’s disgusting, because their seed would just be _his_ , but he’s too fucked-raw to care. Knowing that they won’t climax, will just toy with him endlessly, takes some of the edge off. It’s cleaner but disappointing. There are no stakes. They’re not really fucking him because he turns them on—couldn’t possibly be—but because he’s pathetic and somehow his twisted AI’s deemed this the best way to handle him. 

Enoch nips just behind his ear and tells him, “Ye think too much.” He probably does. Emil strokes his side as though to concur. Emmet gives a particularly deep thrust that makes him shudder against Ian. One of them drags blunt fingertips across his breast, catching at his nipple, pinching it, tweaking it, tugging it out—Cristóbal arches and moans. The existential pain that is his life momentarily flickers away, replaced with a wave of desperate _want_ and _need_. Enoch’s thumb swirls around the head of his cock while Emil’s fingers drag through the nest of dark hair around his base. Someone’s tracing the stretched rim of his hole, someone else kneading his sac, rolling his balls around their palm, playing with his body as easily as if it’s their ship—he makes the mistake of looking over at Mister Hospitality’s reclining body. That body shouldn’t turn him on. But feeling it all around him drives him wild. Mister Hospitality drops the hand that isn’t holding his booklet, instead massaging the evident bulge between his legs. Cristóbal’s mouth goes dry just thinking about sucking it. He doesn’t know why he’d do that. He scrunches his eyes closed, and Emil hums a soothing note into his ear. 

He’s going to come. He doesn’t want to. He wants to languish in this hell, this debauchery—it’s grotesque, but it’s respite, relief; he doesn’t have to think about his past or the disasters ahead or worry about getting too close to someone else. He doesn’t have to _love_ himself. He’s fucked into from both ends and lets that jagged, jostling movement drive his dick up between Enoch’s broad fingers. Emil is biting a mark into his jaw. 

Emmet slurs out, “ _Gorgeous_ ,” and Cristóbal loses his mind. He clenches down around his hosts and screams, body going rigid and pulsing. Enoch tenderly pumps out the hot, sticky jets that paint Emmet’s naked stomach. Ian moans between his shoulder blades as he clenches and squirms. Emil pets him like a skittish horse as it all peaks and loosens. He paints Enoch’s hand and splutters to an end. He trembles to a halt, Emmet and Ian pausing with him. The four of them go motionless all at once, except for Cristóbal’s chest, rising and falling with the hammering of his heart and lungs. Emil wipes some of the sweat off his forehead and murmurs something about it being alright. Cristóbal’s ears are ringing. His skin’s burning. He’s dizzy. 

Ian slips out of him—leaving him gaping open around Emmet’s still rock-hard cock and shuddering worse than before. But at least Ian shuffling aside gives Cristóbal room to collapse down onto the mattress. His legs stay spread around Emmet’s lap, Emmet still buried inside him. Enoch keeps a hold of Cristóbal’s spent cock. Emil strokes his stomach and smiles down at him. 

Distantly, he’s aware of Mister Hospitality noting, “Marvelous.”

It’s on the tip of Cristóbal’s tongue to deactivate them. _All_ of them. But Emil’s already drawling, “I’ll fetch a towel,” and Ian’s already curling up beside him. Enoch fondly plays with his broken body, adoringly tracing each and every detail, and Emmet looks down at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. 

Maybe it’s the closest he’ll ever come to self-love again, even if it’s a twisted version. 

Ultimately, he lets them all stay, until Emmet starts playfully rocking into him, and it’s clear they want him again.


End file.
